Son Of A Preacher Man
by pseudoyou
Summary: AU/AH. Bella Swan promised herself she would never become her mother, and Edward Cullen was convinced he would never be able to feel love. But then they met, and everything changed. Where do you draw the line between sex, love and God? Answer: You don't.
1. Poultry Pussy

**Authors Note: **First off, this is my first fanfiction. So don't bitch me out about how much this sucks, because this whole writing business is serious shit. It took me an hour just to figure out how to an upload a fucking story. AND AS YOU'VE PROBABLY NOTICED, I have a habit of swearing. So there's a lot of that. And a lot of pussy. (=

**WHATS THIS STORY ABOUT?! **Honestly, I'm not entirely sure yet. I watched Saved! last night, and I couldn't help but think, _damn, that cassandra is the fucking shit, and i definitely wouldn't mind having hilary faye perform an exorcism on me. _SO OUT CAME THIS STORY! Bella Swan is fucking Cassandra. All the rest of the Forks bitches are Hilary fucking Fayes. And Edward Cullen is the preachers son. NOW, I haven't decided yet if he's going to be this badass, leather jacket, motorcycle riding rebellious teen or some kackey wearing bible thumper. Or neither. Or both. I JUST DON'T KNOW YET, but we'll all find out next chapter! Also, Forks, Washington is an old money town filled with a bunch of country club on Saturday and church on Sunday hypocritical bitches. Bella's dad owns the town, basically - his ancestors founded it, and just like all old money, the town was passed down generation to generation. Kept in the family. And there's other important shit, I'm sure, but I just can't think of it now. So read!

And oh, I don't own shit. (=

**BELLA POV**

"-the fuck is this shit? You trying to poison me, Swan?"

Surprisingly, today had started out as a very good day. The sun was shining bright and my hair was completely frizz free, both fucking rarities all in themselves. And, on top of all that, my guitar instructor finally gave into my seductive ways and fucked me long and hard after practice in his artsy loft right outside of Port Angeles. And then he played me sweet melodic tunes on his shitty guitar (his voice was so gravelly it sounded like he had just swallowed a handful of rocks and downed them with a shot of whiskey, but he was so hot I kindly looked over that fact). And it was _so. Fucking. Hot._

He had this problem with saliva build up in his mouth, and some serious plaque decay going on in there, but its not like I was kissing him on his mouth for long. All the practice I had accumulated over the years with hormonal motherfuckers that probably had a hard time jacking off in the mornings if their sticky, calloused fingers were any clue had quickly taught me the downside that is foreplay. Me? I'm all about the instant gratification. I don't want some fucker branding me with his teeth marks or whispering sweet nothings into my ear, even though my shrink might tell you different.

She says that due to the lack of "love and laughter" in my home environment, I have to search for "love and laughter" from other people, which was supposed to explain my sexual tendencies. I told her, "Lady, my dad married a twenty one year old poker dealer from Vegas that prances around in cheetah print jumpsuits and tries to rub her bisexual tendencies off on me." Quirking a brow and letting a small smirk grace my lips, I leaned back in my shit green chair and propped my boots up on her table, tactically ignoring the dirt clogs that landed all over her precious notebook in the process, before adding, "I get _plenty_ of love and laughter at home."

I'm not some fucked up mental case or anything. I didn't shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die or some shit like that - though if I did I'd probably be able to get away with it. But really, in the prestigious county that is Forks, Washington, everybody who's anybody has their therapist on speed dial. Shit, I cringe just thinking about the fact that I'm looped into the same group as those country club pussies. Not that I have my therapist on speed dial. I'm not that big of a douche.

Nah, when I was thirteen my mom offed herself. It was pretty gorey and fucked up, but its not like we hadn't been expecting it. She was this huge free spirit all throughout high school - the prom queen, the head cheerleader, the constant pep in the county's step. But then she got knocked up with little ole' me, and since back then it was apparently a sin or some shit like that to get an abortion, she was forced into keeping me. Paying her dues or something, I don't know. She'd suffered from clinical depression ever since I was five - some days we'd sing to CCR at the top of our lungs while baking cookies, all batter and _"some folks are born, silver spoon in hand", _and other days I'd sit in the dark while I listened to her scream and cry, all tears and closed curtains.

So when I found her sprawled out naked in the bathtub, the water murky with her dark blood and her eyes peacefully closed with an old high school yearbook photo of herself in hand, the first thought that crossed my mind was; _I hope she didn't get this idea from Cecilia. _I had made my mom go out and rent the Virgin Suicides for me the week before, due to an unhealthy obsession I had to Kirsten Dunst and her crazy teeth at the time. I guess it wasn't the smartest move, making your clinically depressed mother watch a movie all about suicide with you. Still, my excuse for back then was the fact that I was just a stupid motherfucker, all pre-pubescence and sharp angles and gangly legs and shit.

I couldn't help but connect the two dots as I watched my mother lying in a pool of her own blood. But I didn't blame myself, not really. I didn't cry, either. I didn't scream. I called 911 lazily, handed out our home address, and flipped through a magazine on the cold bathroom tile next to my mothers lifeless corpse as I waited to hear the police sirens coming from a distance. The most pronounced memory I had of that day was, _I can't fucking believe my mother copied a fictional characters failed suicide attempt. What a fucking pussy._

I guess that was a rather callous thought for me to have about my own mother who had just minutes before taken her own life, but I had never been all that great with the whole coping business and shit. When my grandfather from my dads side died, I ended up chuckling throughout the entire funeral ceremony as everyone went on and on about what a great man he was. Because honestly, he was a total fucking jackass.

So my tendency to overextend myself sexually? It's because I enjoy sex. I revel in the fact that other girl's feel the need to stick their noses in the air and call me a slut behind my back, when in reality their just so fucking sexually frustrated they probably get about one hour of sleep a night. Where as I sleep like a baby. Fucking baptists. Jesus doesn't forgive whores, but he doesn't forgive bitches, either. Think about that the next time your hiking your dress up an inch and flicking off your ex-boyfriend in the back pews of church on Sunday.

_"-the fuck is this shit? You trying to poison me, Swan?" _And my day had been going by so swimmingly up until this point. You know its a good day when your "mommy" is passed out from an OD on sleeping pills in front of the surround sound home theater system.

But then my motherfucker of a best friend had to come and push his skinny ass through my second story window, ralph on my carpet, and flop down on top of my 2,000 count Egyptian cotton sheets. Black converses and all.

I stared down at his slightly green face disdainfully, an angry line set on my lips as I watched him grimace into the cup of Bella's Shitfaced Hangover Recipe that I had specifically mixed up for him. Okay, so I had Maria mix it up for me. Still, I had to get off my ass and make the call for it through the intercom, and that shit took up the time I could of spent attacking my huge ass pores. They were getting seriously out of hand. I'd have to lay back on the weed. Hah. Fuck right.

"This isn't Heathers, you jackass. I'm not about to spoon you a dose of liquid cleaner." I paused for a second so that I could allow my eyes to trail down his body disdainfully. I didn't so much as mind the wrinkled shirt that read "IF YOUR THIS CLOSE ALREADY WHY DON'T YOU JUST SUCK MY DICK?" written in small print at the bottom of it, nor did I mind the creased washed out jeans that I recognized as the ones he had on the two previous nights, as much as I minded the dirty shoes that were currently collecting dirt clumps all over my fucking sheets. "And take your fucking shoes off before I change my mind on that liquid drainer thing."

"Sure thing, Mommy." With that comment he winked at me with all of that Southern Baptist charm of his and I pinched my nose at his immaturity, internally screaming explicitives as he slowly and so fucking annoyingly took his shoes off. Getting as much dirt on my sheets as possible. Fucker.

"Anyways, I'm not as big as a dumb fuck as Heather Chandler. I'd never drink a glass of draino to prove my shit don't stink. Plus, Winona's got nothing on you, Swan." He smiled up lazily at me, his arms crossed half-hazardly over his chest and his eyes drooping slightly in typical hangover boy fashion. I couldn't help but smirk back at his grin once I took notice of his big toe peeking out from his holey socks.

"Kissass." A small grin matched with sunbleached hair and little boy dimples didn't get me that easily.

"Have you no pity for the ill?"

I pouted my lips out in thought, before nodding my head slightly, "Oh, I have plenty of pity for you. No telling what you caught from your grab hand session with Stanley last night."

Jasper threw his arms over his head, but not before I caught a glimpse of the grimace that crossed his face. "Fuck, it was like the fucking rain forest down there. I think I caught wind of a few endangered species. They've probably spawned on my grubby nails."

I shook my head furiously, a few pieces of hair falling in my face as I willed the giggles trying to escape from my lips to stay put. I never lost control. Bella Swan did not fucking giggle. "Caught wind or caught whiff? She wreaks of fucking poultry. I have to deal with it every day during gym."

Jasper groaned loudly and flopped onto his stomach, shoving his head further into my fluffed pillows. He was going to get them all flat and wrinkles, and I would have to go through the process of fluffing them all over again. Maria never fluffed them the way I liked, and she always fucked with the shit in my room and screwed up the organization of everything, so I had dutifully banned her from these confines. It would take a good ten minutes to get them fluffed just right again. Fucking inconsiderate, jackass Jasper.

"Fuck me." His muffled voice came from beneath my pillows. I rolled my eyes and made my way towards my vanity, eyeing my collection of basic jewelry and trying to decide what necklace would look best with my hair pulled back as I blatantly ignored his dramatics.

"Never again." It's true, I fucked Jasper once. Okay, more than once. But its not like it meant shit or anything. I fucked around with everyone, and so did he. His fingers weren't short and stubby but long and smooth, only slightly calloused around the baseball season. And my pussy didn't smell like pussy, nor did it have lice growing in it. What reason would there be not to express ourselves sexually with one another? I mean, if he's horny and I'm horny, then the end product of our time well spent seems pretty obvious.

I guess with some best friends it would get rather awkward after a while, but its not like either of us are harboring secret feelings of love and devotion and all of that make believe shit for the other. One of the very few shared interests that we have is sex. When I hit fourteen I learned the wonders of smooth hands and when he moved here freshman year with his expert finger maneuvers, it was rather obvious that we'd become inseparable.

Its hard to remember a time before he moved here. That entire year after my mom's fucking pathetic suicide that led up to Jasper's arrival is just a blurred memory in my mind, filled with floppy dicks and hormonal boys who couldn't fill you up properly if they had eight hands. Jasper was a blessing in disguise, though I'd never fucking admit it to him.

Tossing myself down on the bed beside him, I stared up at the ceiling as I listened to his heavy breathing. I could feel his weight shift beside me as he lifted himself up off the bed slightly. "Hey, did you hear about the new family that's moving to town?" I shook my head no, and Jasper continued in the silence, "Shit, I thought your dad would of told you. I mean, he fucking runs the town." I turned my head and scrunched up my forehead at him, silently saying, _my dad? Yeah, like he tells me shit in the five minute intervals where I see him every five or so days as I make my way out the door. _That seemed to be enough of a reminder for him, as he quickly continued, "Yeah, well, we've got a new preacher moving in. He's got two kids, apparantly. A chick and a dick. There gonna go to school with us on some scholarship your dad offered them if they moved to town. Pretty big fucking news, man." I smirked, thinking about all the hell these bible thumpers were gonna be put through.

"I bet the FFEB's will eat that shit up." FFEB's: Fork's Fucking Elitest Bitches. Forks, Washington is old money. Old money as in eighteenth century old. To the pussies that run this town, anyone's family that didn't come into great wealth before the Great Depression is a fucking wannabee. New money is like God-awful Crocs, tasteless and tacky. What's worse than new money? No money. New money was easily run out of town by the botoxed and beer bellied bitches on the County Council, but no money was needed everywhere - even in places like Forks, Washington. Still, no money was few and far between here; the only cases often found by people such as the police force that run the town from the reservation La Push located outside the town limits and the preacher's and their families that were allotted a house out on Flounder Field Road.

I hated this fucking town with the passion of a burning sun. Once I graduate, I'm moving to L.A. or New Orleans or some no name town in North fucking Dakota, where I can wear grubby clothes and live in a dingy apartment and just not give a shit. Here, I'm stuck as Bella Swan, Charles Swan's prodigal, intelligent, beautiful, OCD slut of a daughter. The heir to the entire fucking town of Forks, Washington. And it seriously fucking sucked.

"I saw the bible thumper's kids, though, and they look about our age. And, fuck, I'd devirginize that flower of a girl in a heartbeat. Daaahhhmnnn." I rolled my eyes, because seriously, Jasper would devirginize a donkey so long as he could put some sort of claim over it. He had always been so fucking territorial that way. His next words shook me from my thoughts, though, "And the dick? You'll be all over that, Swan, just you wait and see." I couldn't help but snicker at that, because hell, bible toters were so not my thing. Still, I couldn't help but smirk as I thought about how interesting Monday was going to be. FFEB's did not take well to the poor, nor did they to the preaching choir (even though they all loved to play pretend that they were good hearted baptists who'd never hurt a fly).

I had been planning on scoring some leaves from my supplier in La Push that day, but my need for weed could wait until Tuesday. No way in hell was I gonna miss this shit - it'd be better than primetime tv.


	2. Art Class Determination

**A/N & DISCLAIMER ; OWN NOTHINGG. I FINALLY HAVE A NEW CHAPTER! AND WELL, ITS A LITTLE OFF THE WALL. BE PREPARED FOR LOTS OF BELLA/EDWARD NEXT CHAPTER! AND EDWARD'S POV! **

**BELLA POV**

12:00 AM

12:00 AM and I was cursing fucking Jasper and his jackass ways. I never set my alarm clock and I don't even fucking know why I have one, but - well, okay, that's a lie. I _do_ know why I have one, but its a completely pathetic and silly and pussy reason and I'd never admit it to anyone.

My mother would have slept all day if she could of, especially after the depression hit her. She'd lay in bed for hours and hours; sometimes sleeping, but mostly just lying awake, staring at the ceiling and letting her life pass her by. Its fucking typical that she'd have a semi-insomniac for a daughter. But, anyways, my dad bought her this alarm clock once when her sleeping habits were getting a bit out of hand. He said all that sleep wasn't good for her health or some shit like that. It was just an excuse. I'm sure sleeping all the time could lead to some serious health issues and some even worse bed sores, but that's not why he bought her the damned thing.

He was scared. He was terrified of what was becoming of his life and his beautiful wife and the damage it would cause to his already fucked up daughter.

When I was eight he caught me burning one of my barbies heads over the oven stove, and when he asked me why I was doing it, I said, "I saw mommy do it to one of her books." It was her fucking journal. And I never understood the fear I saw flash before his eyes then. I don't think I even truly understand it now.

Fear for his beloved wife, the only women he had ever truly loved.

Fear for his only child, his only daughter, his only confident in this secret life of burned pictures and painful screams and tear stained clothing that we were forced to lead.

And ultimately, fear for himself and the life that he had so precariously created. Fear for the future of his town and his legacy and the things that everyone would say. He was just afraid.

But then my mom finally died. And everything changed.

But I'm not about to get into all that fucking nostalgia and shit. After her suicide, at the funeral, all I could hear was my moms cries and screams and all I could think about was how fucking pathetic it all was.

The preacher we had at the time, Johnson or Johanson or something, he was going on and on about how every death mattered and how everything that happened, happened for a reason. How it was all supposed to be for the greater scheme of things or some shit like that. And everyone at the funeral was fucking eating that shit up - everyone except me, that is.

I think if it all mattered, if this guy called God really did need my mom to off herself for the better of the world, then I think he would of been a bit more creative when coming up with her fucking suicide. A slit to the wrists in the bathtub is fucking pathetic, and shit, if this God guy is real, I think he'd be a bit more imaginative then that.

I mean, come on, the whole virgin Mary thing? That shit took imagination.

My mom was crazy. She was mental and fucked up and insane and in her eyes, nothing in life mattered anymore. It was that simple. So she killed herself. That's why she died. Her death didn't matter to anyone, it wasn't important and the whole world didn't weep for her demise. People sent us enough flowers to last a lifetime and I was given about a million "I'm sorries," but no one truly cared. They were just basking in the scandalous-ness of it all.

I don't live for the past and I don't live for the fucking future. I live for the present. Because who fucking knows if I'm going to end up joining my mother on the crazy bandwagon and offing myself as if I were born to be some sacriligious offering to the world.

And fucking goddammit, I've gone and gotten so fucking lost in my thoughts that a whole fucking hour has passed and all I have to account for it is my mentally exhausted mind.

I need to get some fucking sleep.

12:45 AM

I think I dozed off for fifteen minutes or so. But then the screams of, "YOU MUTHUHHH FUCKUHHH, YOU DIRRRTYY MUTHUHHH FUCKAHHHH, EHMEHHGAWWDDDD," jarred me from my peaceful state of sleep. I don't know what I was thinking when I decided I wanted the second story bedroom instead of the third.

Oh, right. I was thinking I didn't want to risk fucking blindness by walking in on the Vegas tramp dry humping the sperm out of my father as I made my way to the front door.

But damn, risking bodily injury by scaling the trellis couldn't possibly be as painful as having to listen to their moans and groans reverberate through the ceiling, i.e. the third story's wood flooring.

Maybe my ear plugs could drain out Tanya's explicit mouth.

1:00 AM

I'd need ear plugs made out of fucking titanium to drown out the sound of Tanya's screaming. Jesus, at least the girl would have acting as a career to fall back on once my father divorced her pathetic ass. Even I couldn't make a fake orgasm sound so convincing. And trust me, I've faked my fair share of orgasms.

And just when you think your about to get some peace and quiet, you hear the quiet moans coming from a distance, and the bitches upstairs decide to hit it for round three.

3:30 AM

"Thank you, dad, for your horny late night escapades that led me to sleeping in an extra thirty minutes. How the hell am I supposed to function properly now?" I muttered to myself as I swung my long legs over the side of my bed and hobbled to the bathroom door.

Stubbing my toe in the process. Shit, you'd think someone suffering from such a grand superiority complex would be as graceful as a fucking Swan. Unluckily, that isn't so. At least not for me.

After fumbling around in the dark for a good minute in a half, I finally found the light switch and rubbed my eyes as the sudden brightness blinded my sight. _Fucking A, why did I always have to look so shit-wrecked in the mornings?,_ I thought as I stared at my haggard reflection in the mirror above the sink.

My hair was matted and mussed up and it looked like I had been going at it with some horny bastard all night long. And it wasn't the type of sex hair that looked fuckgood in the morning, either. It was the kind that looked disgustingly greasy and oily - not to mention insanely tangled.

There was the outline of a pimple preparing to burst through my skin located directly on the center of my chin, and my breath smelled like boiled eggs and the shit sushi I ate last night.

At least my skin was shimmering with the early beginnings of a tan, thanks to the daily visits I had taken to the tanning salon in Port Angeles the past week. I was far from a Jessica Alba, but at least it was fucking something.

After tossing a hard glare at my reflection and brushing my teeth thoroughly for a timed five minutes, I turned on the shower head and prepared myself for my first day back to school. It was finally senior year, and I'd be damned if I looked like shit on one of the most important days of my life. Important because now I could finally take the art class I had been dying to take ever since I caught sight of the new art teacher last year. He had jet black hair and soulful blue eyes, and hotdamn, I could tell by the way he glided across the greens that he'd be a good fuck.

Unfortunately for me then, the class was only offered to seniors. But now I'm a senior. And I can finally have my chance at sitting in the front row, tits hanging out all over the place and the strategically placed blush all over my cheeks as I eyed him unabashedly.

The fact that I couldn't draw a straight line for shit didn't exactly come to mind as I registered myself for the class. That would all be handled in due time. Maybe he could give me private tutoring lessons.

My day dreams lasted for the remainder of my morning as I went through my typical early morning routines. Shaved legs? Check. Body washed with soap imported from Italy? Check. Pussy prim and proper thanks to yesterday's bikini wax? Check.

As the clock struck 4 AM I flicked on my ipod station and cornered my closet as the oh so appropriate lyrics of, _I'm only happy when it rains, I'm only happy when its complicated,_ filled my ears. Fucking Fork's Academy and its fucking ugly ass dress code. Seriously, pleated skirts? That's just asking for horny teachers to hand over their licenses so that they can get a good fuck in with one of their underage students.

Sure, the skirts were supposed to come down to our knees, but who the fuck does the faculty think we are? Virgin Mary's? Fuck that shit, only the socially awkward outcasts wore their skirts at the full knee length. Well, the socially awkward and that one Scottish fucker that refused to wear anything but his kilt.

After a couple of minutes sifting through the uniforms lining one side of my walk in closet, I finally settled on my pleated mini with a fitted white polo and an over sized vest that had previously belonged to Jasper. After sliding on my Christian Louboutin, black leather boots and clasping my Tiffany's diamond and 18 karat white gold necklace around my neck, I felt perpetually better about my appearance.

Whoever said money couldn't buy happiness was full of shit, because as soon as I had added the 3,000 dollar plus amount of accessories to my outfit, my mood was effortlessly lifted. I even found myself fucking humming along to some Ryan Adams tune that was playing on my ipod as I all but skipped down the staircase to the kitchen, where the smell of bacon and eggs was wafting through the air.

Our chef, Leon, was hard at work, cursing under his breath in some unknown language to me as he eyed a burnt croissant distastefully. Fucking perfectionist.

I cleared my throat loudly, and he gave me his huge, eat shit grin, before plopping a big plate of calories galore onto the table in front of me. I eyed it with the same distaste that he had given the croissant just seconds ago, before shoving it away from my body and crossing my arms over my chest.

"You know I don't eat in the mornings. I either eat it and have to deal with seriously unflattering bloating all day or gag reflex the meal into the toilet three minutes after I consume it, and then I'll have to deal with barf breath all morning." Plastering on my _own_ equally annoying eat shit grin, I quirked an eyebrow at Leon before adding, "So thanks, but no fucking thanks. I'll just take a water with lemon."

I couldn't decipher his words completely, but it sounded as if he had muttered something a long the lines of, "Bloody fucking Americans."

I purposefully avoided spouting out a thank you as he handed me my water, and after taking a sip of it, I made sure to accidentally spill it all over the five star breakfast he had whipped up for my father and the Tyrant Tanya. He looked like he was about to dive over the kitchen bar as I eyed the soaked food innocently, murmuring that "my father doesn't need all of that trans fat, anyhow," before skipping happily out of the kitchen and back towards my room.

An hour and a half later I was parked in front of the school, sitting the passenger seat of Jasper's Aston Martin; putting on the finishing touches of my "barely there" make up and running my fingers messily through my hair, giving it the perfect amount of sex appeal.

I had propped my long legs up on the dashboard, my barely there skirt unabashedly riding up and thus sharing with Jasper the knowledge that I was currently going commando. His hard on looked like it was about to rip the seams of his jeans, and if I were in a more generous mood I would of offered to help relieve some of that tension. But fuck it, because I was already late for my art class and I didn't want some fucking Jessica Stanley type getting my front class seat.

I quickly grabbed my Burberry bag and hightaled it out of the parket lot, sending a quick wave to Jasper, who had started to relieve in tension in his penis region before I had even stepped out of the vehicle.

It had started drizzling lazily, and I had to flee to hide beneath the overhangs to avoid the frizz effect the water had on my hair. Shit, just being this close to the rain was probably already sending my hair into hysterics. After running halfway across the campus, I finally slowed my pace a bit and flipped open my pocket mirror, fixing my hair and undoing another button on my polo so that my lacy blue bra was slightly visible. Perfect.

Shoving open the door, I smirked as the entire class of about thirteen students turned to see who the tardy party was, and continued my smirking as the seven male students obviously ogled my body. Two of the females even seemed to be eyeing me appreciatively, then again, that wasn't new. Lesbianism had popped up all over the place in Forks during the past year, probably due to the influx in steroid use among the male population of Fork's Academy and the shitty side effects it left on their packaging. _Sometimes you just needed a womans touch._

"Mrs. Swan, are you just going to stand there all day or are you going to take your seat at the back of the class?" A shrill, annoying voice questioned me angrily. My eyes flashed to the front of the classroom, and widened as I took in the appearance Mrs. Wilson, the drama teacher with a huge ass, thanks to the box of Twinkies she consumed on a daily basis. What the fuck? Let me repeat, _what the fuck?_

Gritting my teeth, I plastered on my eat shit grin and shook my head, wondering how many times I would have to use that stupid mechanism today. "Sorry, Mrs. W, I guess I got caught up in admiring the handy-work of your double D's. Who was your surgeon? 'Cause that shit looks fucking unbelievable, and my step mom has been looking for a good plastic surgeon." Cue the sugary sweet smile met with the old hag's death glare. Fuck her if she thought my smile or innocent gaze would falter. My daddy owned this town and her huge fucking ass, and she knew it.

"Back of the class, Swan." I smiled again and skipped to the back of the class, making sure my skirt flashed up to reveal my perfectly sculpted ass as I passed by dorky Eric Yorkie's table. Have fun dealing with that hard on during class, Yorkshire. That's what you get for slipping me those ruffi's at McCarty's party last week.

Sighing as I plopped down at the only empty table at the very back of the class, I tossed my eraser at the back of Jessica Stanley's head and held back a snort as it got stuck somewhere in her huge ass perm.

"What?" She hissed at me over her shoulder, sending me a pathetic attempt at a death glare. I rolled my eyes at her. The girl all but kissed Lauren Mallory's ass, and ever since I had fucked Mallory's boyfriend Sophomore year, the two had had it out for me ever since. Seriously, its not my fault I was completely wasted and her boyfriend was a complete sleazebag. Fuck, he wasn't even that good.

"Where the fuck's the art teacher from last year?" This question caused a huge grin to spread across Stanley's face, and it was obvious that she was appeased to know something that I didn't. Shit, she was the biggest fucking gossip around and all but hid outside her classmates windows at night to get the latest ins and outs of peoples relationships; that's not exactly something to brag about.

"He got caught fucking Heather Berkett on one of the tables in here during open house Thursday night. And do you know what his pathetic excuse was? 'It was an art project! This so called prestigious academy has no appreciation for the fine arts, I tell you!' Fucking pussy, if you ask me." Fucking Stanley and her huge fucking mouth - I had already tuned out of the conversation as soon she had mentioned Heather and the tables. Shit, I was probably rubbing my elbows all over her fucking sperm.

I spent the next fifteen or so minutes tuning out Mrs. W's droning voice and losing myself in hateful thoughts towards all the dumbfuck Heather's of the world, until the sound of the door clattering open drew us both out of our reveries.

There, standing in the middle of the classroom, was a fucking _Sex God_.

Leather jacket that looked like it had by far surpassed its glory days of the early 80's.

Messy, perfect, sparkling sex hair that was the most gorgeous shade of bronze.

_Bronze? Seriously? Who the fuck has bronze hair?_

Sex God's, apparently.

And then, the most dazzling set of deep green eyes matched with the most fucking kissable lips I had ever seen.

Who the hell was this?

Who the hell cares?

I sure as hell didn't, at least until he raised his hand in a sort of half wave and let a small smirk grace his lips as he introduced himself as, "Edward Cullen," and I swear to God he was looking right at me. Or maybe he was looking at the breasts that were currently popping out of my top. Fuck, who cares? Because after having a silent conversation with the teacher, he was making his way towards my table, passing Stanley and her pathetic attempts to make her minimal B cups look larger, and then he was fucking sitting beside me.

And I was completely turned on by the smell of his leather jacket and shit, his fingers were long and coated in charcoal and so he just has to be an artist, and I had to push out thoughts of the magic his fingers could work because I had chosen the worst day to go commando and the smell of my wet pussy was about to start wafting out from underneath my skirt and it wasn't until the realization of who this was struck that I thought, _hotdamn,_

_This was Edward fucking Cullen._

The preachers son.

The bible thumper.

The guy that was currently staring down at me with the oddest, sexiest look in his bright green eyes.

Goddamn it, this was going to be a long fucking year.

**UP NEXT?! A LOOK INTO EDWARD AND ALICE'S FIRST DAY! Well, Edward's first day, which will give you a look into Alice and Carlisle and Esme! =D**

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	3. Empty Eyed Girl

**A/N own nothing, blah dah dah. thanks for those of you that are faithfully reviewing! i think i'm the only author who gets excited for one review, haha.**

**i'm still working out the kinks of edward's personality and his family life. i know how i want bella to be, but edward's difficult for me to get. so remember that while reading this!**

**also! i'm having a hard time settling on a title and such, so bear with me through the changes. **

**EPOV**

"Jesus Christ, open the goddamn door! I've got to take a piss!" I rapped angrily on the paper thin bathroom door, rolling backwards and forwards on the balls of my feet in anguish.

Having to share a bathroom with a seventeen year old girl who was hell bent on waking up at the crack of dawn and locking herself into the smallest room possible (i.e., our bathroom) so that she could practice her early morning prayers?

Fucking sucked.

The diligence she showed towards her religious faith was rather off-setting. And, when you really take time to think about it, it was actually quite pathetic, as well.

After five minutes had passed by painfully slowly, my twin sister finally opened the door. She looked exceptionally angelic in her knee length skirt with that engraved bible underneath her arm.

She had _asked_ for it for our sixteenth birthday. I had asked for a water bong. Only one of us got our wishes granted that day.

"Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain. Exodus 20: 7, Edward. Maybe you should start back up with your bible studies." She looked at me innocently, her eyes wide and alight as she fingered her bible protectively. What did she think I was going to do, tear it from her arms and tear it to pieces?

I wasn't completely faithless, and so the fear of getting struck by lightening or hit by a bus for defacing a bible kept me from doing just that. Despite the innocent act she was putting up, the disdain she felt towards me was obviously evident in the reflection of her eyes. She should know better then to try and hide things from me. I had always been oddly intuitive, and on top of that, I was her twin brother. We had shared a womb. And, believe it or not, we had been inseparable for the first thirteen years of our life.

Reaching out, I pretended to adjust the invisible halo around her head, "I think your halo's a little crooked, _Angel_." She shook her head in annoyance, clutching that goddamn bible to her chest like a lifeline as she pushed past me, "Just mind your own fucking business, okay?" I muttered under my breath, just loud enough so that she'd be the only one to hear.

The house had two bedrooms and two bathrooms, and so the laundry room nook in the corner of the kitchen was made into my bedroom. This also meant that the house was abnormally small, even smaller then the commune we had stayed at in Argentina when I was eleven and Carlisle (my dad, though I rarely called him that) was spreading the word of Jesus to all the unintellectual folk.

The walls here were paper thin, and so private conversations were impossible to have in the small confines of our new home.

Sighing, I washed my hands quickly before wiping the remaining water droplets onto my rumpled white button down shirt and dark blue slacks that were apart of the males mandatory dress code at the prestigious Forks Academy. Screw them if they thought they thought they were getting me into those male version Mary Jane's that my sister loved so much. It was my scuffed up docs or nothing at all.

Good footwear was hard to come by, and the total number of two pairs of shoes that I owned were worn in and worn out just to my liking. I'd do without the foot sores, thank you.

After carelessly running a toothbrush over my teeth and covering up my pits with much needed deodorant, I ran my hands lazily through my hair in failed attempts to tame the wild mess. Fuck, whatever, I scratched at the small amount of facial hair that had grown in over night on the sides of my cheeks and shrugged, before unlocking the door and making my way towards the kitchen.

Of course my mother was already up, baking and humming under her breath to some God awful, "Praise Jesus!" tune like it was Sunday fucking morning.

It was Sunday fucking morning _every_fucking morning in the Cullen household. Of course Alice was already propped at the table, eating her eggs and toast as she thumbed through some random passage in that bible of hers. Rolling my eyes, I made my way over to the kitchen counter, grabbing a piece of her toast and taking a self satisfied bite into it.

She pouted for a second, before smiling brightly and shrugging her shoulders, easily ignoring my vain attempts to piss her off. Alice Cullen did not do pissed. _Ever. _Alice Mary Cullen was like the everyday equivalent of Saint Jude.

"Good morning, dear!" She eyed the toast I was munching on before adding, "Please, get your own plate! Its your first day, you'll need all the energy you can get. This feels like a good town, Edward. Good people. I bet you'll make lots of new friends." She gave me a warm smile and I snorted, knowing very well that I was the very last person any of these snooty rich kids would wish to associate with.

_The preachers son, that title just screams popularity._

"That's highly unlikely, mother." The finality of my tone put an end to the conversation, because my mother hated confrontation more than Alice herself. "Anyways, where's pops? Skipping out on breakfast again?"

"Oh, well, he's uh, he had to get an early start at the church. You know, settling in and whatnot." My mother was a shitty ass liar, though no one ever called her on it. It was hard to understand how she ended up with a man like Carlisle in the first place. Esme was kind and caring, as was Carlisle, but the traits differed majorly in their intents for the two of them. The generosity and caring that Esme showed people close to her came from her heart, and it was such a bright kindness that turning away from it made you feel like a total asshole. She took great thought and consideration into who she lent her hand out to, while Carlisle was so steadfast in helping the world and all the people in it, that a majority of the time he left the people he cared most about in the wake of his dreams.

Like my mother, and my sister, and myself.

Leaving Esme to hold us all together, through all the trying times, through move after to move, dream after dream, place after place. Everything seemed to revolve around Carlisle and what he wanted, and it was a wonder my mother hadn't cracked yet. She was one of the most emotional people I had ever met, but she never, ever showed herself under emotional distress.

We all knew that my father loved us, but he was too caught up in himself and his plans to save the world from its evils to give any of us the time of day. His faith was supposed to be enough for all of us, but it wasn't. It wasn't enough for me.

The truth was, my mother had no idea where Carlisle had run off to. Just like she had no idea where he had been for those three weeks he had disappeared in Africa, leaving her shaking with an overwhelming fear of loss until the day he returned, exclaiming that he had "taken refuge in one of the camps, in attempts to prove himself to one of the tribal leaders." He couldn't risk his dreams for world understanding by giving us a call or sending a message our way to, you know, let us be aware of his survival.

Just like she had no idea where he had been the day of my accident, four years ago. When I had been lying in bed, dying, crying for my father like a fucking pussy and praying to God that everything was going to be okay.

And it hadn't been. Nothing had been fucking okay ever since.

"Right. Well, we better get going, _Mary_." Alice narrowed her eyes at me for a split second, sensing the hidden meaning behind the use of her first name, before smiling brightly and bouncing out of her chair, yanking my arm and tugging me to the door. She was fucking skipping. I felt the urge to hurl yet again.

There was a bus system in Fork's, but it consisted of a total of one bus, unfortunately. Which both my sister and I were unaware of, leaving us twenty minutes late to our first classes. The entire ride to school she was rambling on and on about this and that, and I wasn't even bothering to pretend to pay attention. That didn't deter her talkative mouth, though, just like it never did.

Finally the bus pulled up in front of the school, which looked more like a fucking college, and I sighed heavily as I realized my class was in the opposite direction of Alice's. Thank God, because there's only so much I can handle.

The rain was starting to pour down, and I grumbled loudly and hugged my leather jacket tighter to my chest. I found it at some garage sale when we were living in London for 12 euros, and it had been my favorite jacket ever since. Then again, it was one of my _only_ jackets. It's not like my father was rollin' in the dough. Charity doesn't create wealth. Selfishness does.

Before I realized it, the door to my first period art classroom was right in front of me and I was stepping into the high wattage lights of a small classroom. There was about fourteen kids in the class, and I shuffled my eyes to the ground and then towards what I assumed was the teacher. I hated when people fucking stared at me - it had always been like this, ever since I was a kid. They looked at me all wide eyed and dazed, probably groaning to themselves internally because the preacher's kid was in the same class as them.

I quickly lifted my eyes from the ground and stared straight ahead, letting my gaze settle on the wall in front of me before letting my hand wave a little bit and introducing myself as, "Edward Cullen."

Two fucking syllables. I'm such a dumbfuck. I let my gaze trail down the wall a little, only to find my eyes glued to someone else's. To a girls. They were wide and doll like, and such a dark brown that they almost blended in with her irises. Comparing them to the sugary sweet substance of chocolate wouldn't do them justice, because the emotions her eyes conveyed held nothing comparable to sugar or sweetness.

They were as dark as night, swirling with the emptiness and despair that only someone who had experienced true pain and heartbreak would be able understand.

They were blank and emotionless. They showed no signs of loneliness, but it was as if I just knew. As if I understood. I felt this deep connection to her and her soulless eyes in that moment, a connection that I didn't and didn't ever want to understand. I had felt my fair share of pain. I didn't want to feel anymore.

So I tore my eyes away from her and turned towards the teacher, hastily explaining my tardiness. She seemed to be in a foul mood, but she let me off with a warning, probably because I was the preachers son.

It was always because I was the preachers son.

Unfortunately, the only empty seat was in the back, right next to the girl who I had been staring at just moments before. I trudged towards the desk, my eyes glued to the ground and my cheeks slightly inflamed as I heard the sound of a curly haired girl sitting in front of my desk lightly purring in my direction.

Was she trying to intimidate me? Scare off the "bible toting new kid"? It wasn't working. It was just slightly perturbing. I couldn't help but let a small smirk appear on my lips as the girl continued on with the noises. It was quite hysterical, watching her purse her lips together in determination, only to have the God awful sound resembling that of my grandfathers truck carborator come out of her lips.

The girl sitting beside of me, who I let myself chance a glance at, seemed fulling entertained by the debacle as well. Her skin pale, but it seemed to have a golden sparkle of sorts about it, as if she had spent the weekend at the beach. She had long, mahogany hair bouncing around her head in perfect, shiny curls. And, shit, I'm not even going to get started on her body and the blue lace bra she was wearing, because she was so obviously out of my league. She had on a diamond necklace that probably cost more than house, and she had this air of life experience about her that made me feel oddly inadequate. No one had ever made me feel inadequate before. Not the tribal leader of the African tribe we had stayed with, or the Mr. Aro Buchanon, a man my father had introduced us to as his comrade from college. He had travelled the world and seen things - and not because he felt obliged to, or because he was forced to, but because it was his dream. It was what he wanted out of life.

I had no fucking idea what I wanted out of life.

And staring into the empty eyes of the girl sitting next to me, it shocked me to the core to realize that for once in my life, that uncertainty I had always carried over my shoulder was fading away.

How could I fucking want something, someone, that I didn't even know?

It was fucking impossible.

But shit if it wasn't fucking beautiful.

**BPOV**

He was fucking staring at me, and I was fucking staring back. I was completely oblivious to what the fat ass up front was rambling on about, because his bright, seaweed green eyes were on me.

And I felt so violated.

And never before had me feeling so violated had me feeling so hot.

It was like he could see right fucking through me, past my thousand dollar boots and my perfectly applied make up. Past my ironed shirt and filed nails. Past the cold looks I gave everyone, even Jasper and even my father.

It shook me to the core, and I just couldn't fucking deal with his gaze anymore. So I turned my head and watched the teacher. I wasn't listening and I sure as hell wasn't taking notes, because who the hell takes notes in art class? I was just trying to gather my thoughts and dry my pussy, all the while ignoring the model gorgeous bible toter sitting next to me.

Shit, no wonder he gave off that all knowing vibe. He had Jesus fucking Christ on his side! All that God mojo and shit, of course it did wonders for your vibe.

Unfortunately, teach decided to end things twenty minutes early. Giving us free time to chat and socialize, "to spread the word of art", as she so eloquently put it. Fucking hippie, Jas would eat this shit up. He was all about peace on earth and _feelings_.

I bit my lip, and let my hair down in attempts to hide my face from the boy sitting beside me. The looks he kept giving me were truly unnerving, and I have no idea what these "feelings" and shit were, but I were not going to let them turn me into a pussy.

I could fuck him.

I _would_ fuck him.

If anything, it'd be a good chase. And once I realized he was nothing special, just some holier than thou jackass, all of these tingly sensations would go away. Besides, its not like my pussy didn't work for him.

I put a bright, welcoming, eat shit grin on my face and turned towards the boy next to me, who had pulled out a sketchpad sometime during my inner turmoil and started drawing away. From what I could glance of it, it seemed like it was a sketch of a dirt road. It was desolate and dark, except for a splash of red towards the corner of the page where a shadowed outline of a figure stood. Or maybe it was just a smudge. Still, it was beautiful and deep and fuck if it wasn't disturbing.

I guess I had been staring for a bit too long, though, because Edward quickly slammed his sketch book shut and muttered a quick, "Fucking shit," under his breath before letting his eyes settle on mine.

They weren't light like before.

They were dark and filled with anguish and rage.

Rage at me? For looking at his fucking picture?

Or maybe it was rage for what had caused him to _draw_ the picture.

"Was there something that you wanted?" Jesus, his voice was amazing even when it was sharp with anger.

"Bella Swan." I stuck my hand out for him to shake, and he looked to be considering for a moment, before he finally gave and gave me a firm hand shake.

In the words of Heather Chandler, _fuck me gently with a chainsaw_. His fingers were long and his hands were smooth and shit, I needed to stop thinking shit like this.

As I pulled my hand away, I grimaced slightly at the dark smudges outlining my hand now. Grabbing a tube of hand sanitizer out of my bag, I quickly wiped my hands down determinally.

_One, two, three, four, five... there, clean enough._

He was looking at the table, and his cheeks had a tint of red in them. "Shit, I'm uh, sorry about that." He nodded towards my hand and I quirked my eyebrow at his free use of explecitives.

"Its whatever. Isn't your dad the new preach?" Best to get right down to business. Edward narrowed his eyes at meand pursed his lips tightly, before nodding his head.

"Yeah, that'd be him. Determined to save the people from their internal evils, one silicon housewife at a time." I smirked at that, taking in his obvious dissatisfaction father happily. Maybe he'd be an easier fuck, after all. He doesn't exactly seem like a choir boy.

"I take it your not his biggest fan?" He looked taken aback for a second, before tilting his head downward, as if in thought. A few seconds passed and I didn't think he was going to answer my question and take it as a rhetorical one, at least until he lifted his head to say,

"He's just... difficult. Which is quite the hypocritical statement coming from me, but its the truth. He's selfish with his need to help the world, and he takes into consideration the feelings of others before he does his own families. He can be rather selfish in a selfless way." He lowered his eyes for a second before letting out a bitter laugh, "Like father like son."

Like father like son, like father like son.

_Like mother like daughter._

I swallowed the bile I hadn't realized had rose in my throat, unable to compose my thoughts enough to speak. He seemed to feel a bit ashamed of his exclamation, no doubt questioning why he had spilled his guts to the spoiled rich girl sitting beside him.

The words came out of my mother before I could find enough rational thought to push them back inside me.

"My mother was the same way, except she was selfish with herself and the world that she had created. She cared more about the life she never got to have than the one she was forced to live. It fucking sucks, doesn't it?" The words came out in a whoosh, spilling out all over the place in quiet whispers that conveyed the disgusting sadness of truth.

He was looking at me funny, and I resisted the urge to check for drool or smeared mascara on my face. He swallowed and I watched as his adam's apple bobbed up and down with the movement.

Suddenly he murmured, "Yeah, it does." In such a quiet voice that I wasn't sure he had even said it at all. But then he looked at me, his eyes confused but bright again, and he slowly shook his head, "I can't believe I just told you all of that. I don't even know you, but I just..." He trailed off and fixed his eyes on the desk in front of him.

"Me too." I'm not certain what I was agreeing to, but it felt right to say it. Like it fit. And it did, and we did, and I hardly even knew this strange boy with the bright green eyes sitting beside me, his shoulders bunched together and his hands tapping nervously on the table in front of him, but everything about him felt right.

But then the bell rang, and everything that had just happened faded to the back of my mind. Because I refused to do this.

I refused to find myself infatuated with some stupid teenage boy that moved to this no name town, and I refused to get myself stuck here.

I refused to end up the way _she_ had.

So I let a self satisfied smirk grace my lips, grabbed my backpack, and lean down so that my breasts were at eye level with him. I pressed my mouth lightly to his ear and whispered, "So this means you wouldn't be opposed to sexual escapades in the back pews of church on Sunday?" Because fuck, even though I didn't want him to have influence on my life, I knew that Sunday morning I would end up sitting in church next to Jasper and his parents, playing the good little christian girl role that I was so obviously not meant for.

I let my hand graze over his thigh and slowly over his cock, and I felt him jump up slightly as I did so. I had planned ending it with a smirk and and a seductive, "Later, Cullen" But as soon as I had touched his prized possession (and fuck, was it prized. I could tell, even through his slack covered legs, that his packaging was mighty fine) he pushed back from his chair and high tailed it out of the classroom.

Jessica fucking Stanley had witnessed the whole thing, and she was laughing like a hyena at her desk. I rolled my eyes and pointed to her top, "Next time you want to play the slut card, do it fucking right. Your fucking nips are showing, and trust me when I say this - boob hair is not attractive. Especially not when its black and all over your tits like a fucking werewolf. Get a pair of fucking tweezers."

I was sexually agitated and pissed the fuck off.

Today was going to suck ass.

**i'm going the typical author route and asking for reviews. =p and then maybe i'll be given more determination to write the next chapter soon?!**


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